Party Quirks
by AgnesDei
Summary: What could go wrong at a simple costume party?  As it turns out, when the Jigsaw squad are involved, the answer is: "Everything".  Rated T for minor language and complete insanity.


**A/N: This story (which was inspired by a very weird conversational drift) is dedicated with much love to my fellow SAW roleplayers, who have not once let me down whenever I needed big laughs.**

**I adore every one of you guys and gals, and if this goes even some small way towards repaying that, then I'm an extremely happy Hoffy Bunny...**

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><p>Strahm looked down gloomily.<p>

"I'm going to ask you one more time," he said to Hoffman, pouting just a little in spite of his burning desire to hang onto the last remaining shred of his masculinity, "why couldn't I be Batman?"

Hoffman snorted derisively, not even attempting to stifle a nasty grin as he took in Strahm's costume, paying particular attention to the FBI agent's surprisingly spindly legs, now encased in a fetching pair of yellow tights.

"Let me make this perfectly clear, Boy Wonder," he replied, putting as sarcastic a spin on those two words as he possibly could, "there is no way in hell that you could pull _this_ off." Hoffman cast a lazy hand over his own garb, adjusted the set of his utility belt with considerable satisfaction and then pointed a finger at his own chest. "Me, Batman. The Dark Knight, saviour of Gotham and the terror of the ladies." He turned that finger on Strahm now and went on, "You, sidekick, occasional comic relief and, if you'll excuse my saying this, girly little bitch."

Addison wandered over, drink in one hand, and applied the other to Strahm's butt with a healthy smack.

"Don't listen to him, gorgeous," she said. "I think you look hot." It did not escape Hoffman's attention, however, that she was wearing a small, wry smile as well as – he glanced further down and curled a very interested eyebrow – a Black Canary outfit which looked as if it must have been sprayed on.

"Yeah, well," he said, meeting her gaze and treating her to his signature smirk, "you _would_ say that, wouldn't you? You married this chump. Why'd you bring the old ball and chain anyway, Strahm?"

Strahm opened his mouth to retort, but Addison cut across him. "He didn't bring me," she said, highly amused. "I brought myself. You think I'd miss seeing this?"

"Ha," said Strahm. "It's not as if the place is much less weird at any other –" he broke off abruptly and glared across the room to where the Green Lantern had Wonder Woman backed against a filing cabinet and was groping her buttocks as if they were the last pair of cantaloupes in the market. "Hey, either break it up or get a room, you two," he said, raising his voice a little. "Can't you go one evening without making out?"

Kerry looked around, blushed and extricated herself from Matthews's clutches with some difficulty; the detective seemed completely oblivious to Strahm's irritated catcall and continued to fondle her for a few seconds more before she wriggled free, cleared her throat and adjusted her dress.

"Sorry," she said, dodging one last spirited attempt at molestation by her fiancé and moving to join the others. "It's this costume. He's a little over excited."

"I'd be more inclined to believe that excuse," said Hoffman, pursing his lips in thought, "if he wasn't feeling you up at every other opportunity as well…"

"You're just jealous, Hoffman," said Matthews, sauntering over and grabbing Kerry around the waist once more. "The only question is, are you jealous of me, or Allison?"

A short silence ensued, hotly pursued by another, slightly longer silence. This was bad enough, but the fact that it was eventually interrupted by Addison's barely restrained burst of laughter made it all the worse.

"Are you calling me gay?" asked Hoffman, squaring his shoulders.

"Hey, you're the one using the word, my friend, which I gotta say is a little telling," said Matthews. "However, let me point out, as if I have to, that you and your good buddy here," – he angled his head at Strahm, who was now bridling both at the insinuation of gayness _and _at being referred to as Hoffman's best friend – "are dressed as arguably the most suspect pair of crimefighters there ever was. Wayne Manor has about fifteen million bedrooms," he went on, relentlessly, as both Hoffman and Strahm gradually shaded to purple beneath their respective masks and studiously avoided one another's eye, "so why do the Dynamic Duo have to share one, huh?"

"Bull," said Strahm, but he was still blushing violet.

"Come on, you two are gayer than a box of Care Bears," said Matthews.

"Are not!" snapped Hoffman.

"You totally make the Village People look like the Navy SEALs."

Addison quietly took hold of Kerry's elbow and drew her aside a little as the schoolyard bickering continued.

"I'm curious," she said, when she judged they'd moved out of earshot, "is it always like this?" She realised she was whispering, and then wondered why she was bothering to keep her voice down; the debate on the far side of the room had now reached such a volume that the windows were vibrating gently in their frames. In terms of specific content, Matthews was expanding at length on the nature of Strahm's boxers, which he was insisting were pink, decorated with flowers and had the words GET IT HERE printed on the back.

"Actually…" Kerry nodded, wearily, "yeah, it is."

Hoffman had just started to smirk at Strahm's discomfort when Matthews changed tack and declared that he, personally, had discovered a large stash of Judy Garland CDs and a framed photograph of Edward Cullen in Hoffman's locker and that, for a nominal cash payment, he would refrain from informing the world at large that the latter item was covered in kiss marks.

Hoffman's embryonic smile vanished at once and he took a step towards his partner, but this threat was interrupted by a blue and red flash that passed between them at eye-blurring speed, trailing a triumphant cry. This cry abruptly changed tone, however, as the Man of Steel tripped over his own eager feet and slid across the floor. There was a loud thump, a small groan and then a ringing silence.

Hoffman and Strahm exchanged eyerolls, bent and grabbed a leg apiece and dragged their colleague out from under the desk, at which point he grinned at them a trifle blearily.

"You're a dork, Rigg," said Hoffman, curtly.

"Takes one to know one, Fatman," Rigg told him, still beaming.

"That's _Batman_," said Hoffman, his voice seasoned with a note of warning.

"Slip of the tongue," said Rigg, suddenly all doe-eyed innocence, and then he levered himself to his feet with all the grace and precision of a newborn giraffe on roller skates. The entire party waited until he'd stopped swaying, and then, as one, looked him up and down with common amusement. Finally, Strahm looked around at the others and elected to voice their shared query.

"You look…big," he said, hesitantly. Rigg faced him down and flexed a bicep proudly.

"I've been working out a lot," he explained, still primping and posing as he did so. "Look at that, it's all me, dude!"

Rigg's words were belied a couple of seconds later as Kerry crept up behind him and jabbed a pin into his side. There was a very small, very sad and protracted farting noise and he deflated, his costume wrinkling around him until he resembled nothing so much as a heroic blue prune.

"Hey," he said, lamely, "I'm still Superman." It was clear, though, that he felt he'd lost the initiative, and was now sagging as much as his Spandex vest. He seemed to rally after a few seconds, however, and darted across the office to switch on the fan. He then stood in front of it, his feet spread, hands on his hips and chest thrust out as his cape flapped around him with appropriate grandeur.

"You know," said Hoffman, after a pause and an ever so slightly _too_ pleasant smile which Rigg was still a tad too concussed to interpret accurately, "I was wrong, Rigg. You're not a dork."

"I'm not?" said Rigg, gratefully.

"No," said Hoffman, still smiling broadly. "You're the Prince of Dorkness."

Rigg deflated even further than before.

"Hey, where's Erickson?" asked Kerry, looking around the office and then directing a quizzical look at Matthews. "You did send him a memo, right?"

"Oh yeah," said Matthews, but there was a slight giggle beneath his words, and he glanced sidelong at Rigg as he spoke. "We may have changed it slightly, though…" he added, and then started to laugh in earnest as Rigg struggled to contain himself, which was an exercise in futility; apart, they were reliable enough, but in concert, he and Matthews typically displayed the maturity level of a pair of howler monkeys after a night on the bong. Hoffman was about to ask what the joke was when the office door slammed back to reveal a scintillating vision in a white rhinestone jumpsuit and greasy black pompadour.

Erickson had struck a dramatic pose in the doorway and made a determined effort at swivelling his hips, so he didn't see at first that the assembled superheroes were staring at him in confounded disbelief. As he turned around, though, he said, "Wh–" and then tailed off as he wilted along with his cheap wig. When he'd recovered himself, he glared at Rigg and Matthews.

"I look like an idiot," he said, savagely.

"Yeah, but how come that's started to worry you _now_?" asked Matthews, just before his superior's glare intensified and fried him on the spot.

"It's Super-Elvis!" said Kerry, who had, unlike her male colleagues, never seemed to worry too much about incurring Erickson's ire. "Faster than a speeding cheeseburger!"

Whatever comment Erickson had been about to fire at her was interrupted by his cell phone; true to form and also to the rest of the team's suspicions that the man would probably be buried wearing the damn thing, he still had on his Bluetooth headset. He frowned, listened for a few seconds and then clicked off, all seriousness now.

"There's an armed robbery in progress on Claymore," he said, gazing levelly at each of them in turn.

"Right," said Strahm, nodding, "so we'll just get changed and –"

"There's no time," snapped Erickson. "Now haul ass, all of you."

"You can't be _serious_?" said five voices in unison. Erickson turned on them a bright, brilliant, happy smile.

"I'm perfectly serious," he said, still twinkling beneath the strip lights. "And what's more, this is as far as I go in looking stupid, because _I'm_ not coming." He paused to take in their expressions, which had solidified in horror. "What? This is a job for the Justice League of America, not Elvis Presley. I," he went on, placidly, "will be staying here to catch up on some paperwork and to keep the lovely Mrs Strahm company until her valiant husband returns from serving the public trust...and being Batman's bitch," he added, a little more quietly.

"I _heard _that," muttered Strahm, indignantly, but nobody else paid him any attention. Erickson waved a dismissive hand at his team and they filed out of the room, hanging their heads.

When the door had closed behind them, Erickson heaved an entirely self-satisfied sigh, grinned at Addison and sat down in Strahm's chair with an air of perfect contentment. Addison, for her part, perched on the edge of the desk and crossed her long legs in one elegant movement before handing him a drink.

"Thank you very much," he drawled.


End file.
